


Holmes Killing Holmes - Holmes Loving Holmes

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Death, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Getting Together, Internal Monologue, M/M, RE-POSTING, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22894168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: The Final Problem - solved in another way.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 22
Kudos: 57





	Holmes Killing Holmes - Holmes Loving Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about this older story, which I liked pretty much when I wrote it. Perhaps new readers might like to have a look as at the moment, I have nothing new to post.

# 1

  
  


“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with and we can get to work.” Mycroft paused when his brother still didn’t react. Obviously he had to give him more encouragement.

He had not thought his life would end like this, would end here and now, but in fact he was relieved. Gone would be the times of feeling responsible for both of his siblings, his constant worry about Sherlock who just had to get high on _something._ He had failed in containing their sister whose craziness surpassed his biggest fears. He had failed in protecting Sherlock from her. Here they were, and his own brother would shoot him. Had to shoot him. God knew how he would be able to live with his guilt – if Eurus let him get away alive at all. She couldn’t be trusted of course. Mycroft had always tried to look after her as much as it was possible, given how dangerous and depraved she was. And she had put him and Sherlock and the doctor through hell, had wanted him to kill a more or less innocent man and had let him witness four men and the governor's wife dying. Mycroft hated her now with all of his being. Why should she let Sherlock go? She was rotten to the core. But whatever was about to happen to Sherlock then, Mycroft wouldn’t have to witness it anymore. It was a cowardly thought and yet the simple truth. But first of all Sherlock had to do it. Given the despise he had for Mycroft, he was surprised he hadn't done it right away. But he was not stupid enough to think that meant that he meant anything to his brother. He had made very clear that John was his family now. They would raise the doctor's child together. Being a real family. And Mycroft didn’t know why this affected ( _hurt_ ) him more than having to die…

“God!” He grinned nastily, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t see through his masquerade. “I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one, the idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Shoot him.” It was so hard to say something that horrible to the only person in this world he truly loved, but if there was a chance to save Sherlock's life, he had to take it.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes filling up with tears, his lips moving rapidly. “You can't mean that!” he blurted. His look darted to John as if to ask for help, and he blinked a few times, causing the tears to run over his cheeks. It was a heart-breaking view and yet Mycroft couldn’t back away.

He noticed that their bloody sister was bending forward with wide opened eyes to not miss a single second of this drama. “Of course I mean it!” Mycroft lied into his little brother's face, and then he froze in shock when Sherlock's left hand reached up to his chest and he started to tumble and gag. “Sherlock!”

“Oh fuck!” The doctor was at Sherlock's side at once. “Didn’t you take your pill?”

“Pill, what pill?!” Mycroft asked, finally moving to grab Sherlock's arm. His brother was panting and sweating, his eyes as unsteady as his breathing. He had dropped the gun.

“Don't you know it?” John asked him. “His heart was affected by his drug abuse.”

And Mycroft knew that John was lying. Everything was fine with Sherlock's heart even though it would have had every right to not function correctly. Given the amount and variety of drugs that he had consumed over the past twenty years, he should actually _have_ severe health problems. But he didn’t; Mycroft was well aware of that. Sherlock had a plan, and apparently he had given the doctor a sign with the blinking.

“What is that?! You don't have a heart problem!” Eurus screamed. “Do you think I'm stupid?!”

Sherlock mumbled incomprehensible words, clinging to both Mycroft and John. “Redbeard,” he whispered. “Tell me about Redbeard, Mycroft!” He blinked again and Mycroft's brain finally started to function properly again.

“No, I won't. I can't.”

“Tell him!” Eurus screamed.

He ignored her and then he turned to John. “Will he die if he doesn’t get treated?”

“Yes. Look at him. He’s having a heart attack.”

“No, he isn't!” Eurus sounded completely hysterical now.

That was good… “Well, Eurus,” Mycroft turned to the monitor. “You either send help for Sherlock or we can go on right away. Because if he dies, only two people will continue from here, just like you requested.” His voice sounded cold as ice now.

“Oh, Mycroft! You can't be serious!” John glared at him but there was an understanding between him and Mycroft that had never been there before. John was well aware that Mycroft was playing along, and he hoped so was Sherlock.

The older man gave his brother's ex-flatmate an arrogant grin. “Well, after all it is not inconvenient. Neither of the two of us will have to die. You can go home to your daughter, and I can go back running the country.”

“What?!” Eurus seemed to stand up. “This is a trick!”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's head and brutally turned it so Eurus could see his face properly. However he had managed to do that, Sherlock looked indeed as if he was about to die.

“Redbeard,” he mumbled again, and then Eurus disappeared from the monitor.

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's arm hard. “Be ready,” he mouthed and then moaned as if he was in pain.

Mycroft agreed that they couldn’t drop their game now. The question was: who would show up in the room now? Would Eurus come herself and would she bring some men to contain them?

And then the door flew open and there she was, her hair standing up, her eyes huge, her breathing fast. She looked like an actress who played one of the witches of Salem in a very convincing way. And she was alone. _And_ she didn’t aim at anybody of them with the gun she had shot the governor's wife with; it pointed away from them… She had been so clever in her deadly game, had used Jim Moriarty to tear Sherlock's life apart, but after all, she wasn't the smart one…

“Sherlock! What is wrong with you!” she screamed and pushed Mycroft and John aside.

Within the blink of an eye, John was picking up the gun Sherlock had dropped between them. Mycroft had understood why he hadn't taken it before. He had been afraid that somebody could still monitor them.

Before he had a chance to use it, Eurus understood and whirled around, pushed Sherlock back so he landed on his back and turned to John with a scream. She was so fast that the ex-soldier didn’t have a chance to aim and his eyes showed panic for a moment before he threw the gun over to Mycroft. He wasn’t able to hand it to Sherlock as the lunatic was between them.

“Guard!” she screamed. Mycroft heard the noise of steps coming closer, and then Eurus lifted her hand to aim her weapon at him.

He had caught the gun from John with shivering fingers, almost dropping it. Just almost. And now he raised it and fired before Eurus could do the same.

This all had happened in a split second; he hadn't had a chance to think. He had not fired a gun at anybody in his life but he had once learned how to use one. And Mycroft Holmes didn’t forget anything. He'd only had one bullet, and it had hit Eurus in the chest.

She tumbled backwards, gurgling, the weapon slipping off her fingers. John took it at once, pointing it at her. Mycroft was rather sure he wouldn’t need to use it.

Sherlock stood up behind her, dropping his mask. “There is no plane up there, right, sister?” he asked coldly and brushed off his suit.

“Urrghh”, Eurus gasped, her hands up on her bloody left breast.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Well, I hope it's not at least. And don't worry - I'm sure Mycroft will tell me about Redbeard.”

Two guards had arrived behind Mycroft, looking at the dying woman with gaping mouths. They had both raised their guns but seemed to be too shocked to use them.

And then she broke down and blood came out of her mouth, and then it was over.

Mycroft heard the noise of metal falling onto the floor and turned around to the uniformed men, who were standing there now with empty hands. With Eurus' death, her power over them had vanished, and they looked as if they were waking up from a dream.

“Get the deputy governor in here,” Mycroft ordered in a sharp voice.

“Yes, sir!” came from both of them about three seconds later, and then they were gone.

“Well, you can drop it, too now,” John said quietly.

Mycroft looked at the empty gun in his hand and then the shock set in. He had killed his own sister. After taking care of her well-being for thirty years, not counting the time when she had still lived at home, she had died from his hands.

“You had no choice,” Sherlock said, and the compassion in his voice surprised Mycroft completely.

It was all too much. He felt an unknown wetness in his eyes. He wasn’t crying, was he? He had never cried.

Sherlock stepped closer to him. “Please, calm down. You need to get this prison under control before more dangerous criminal go loose.”

Before Mycroft could react, he heard steps behind him again.

“Sir!”

Mycroft turned around and saw a man in his fifties. “Turner. Are you ready to take over and tidy up this mess?”

The man swallowed. “Yes, sir. I'm sorry for all this.”

Mycroft bit on his lip. “I can't believe she was able to get you all under her control. This will be investigated thoroughly.” He made a step and noticed his legs had their own mind. And then he broke down, dropping on his knees, and arms were slung around him, and they felt so good, but they couldn’t belong to _Sherlock_ , could they?

# 2

  
  


“Mr Holmes, we need to talk about how you are _feeling_!” The woman with the short red hair bent forward in her chair and pointed at him with her pen.

Mycroft sighed and glanced at his watch. “We haven’t done anything else for the last forty-four minutes. I believe our time is almost over so if you excuse me now – I am very busy today.”

Actually not only today, but the mess in Sherrinford the day before had added a lot of hassle to his schedule. The last thing he needed was to sit here and _talk about his feelings…_ He could thank Lady Smallwood and the PM for that. _“You need supervision, Mr Holmes. You have shot somebody, and above all your own sister,”_ the PM had said, and Elizabeth Smallwood had nodded and made silly noises.

Well, Mycroft was very well aware of that. He had been there, and he didn’t suffer from amnesia. _“It was the only way,”_ he had hissed through gritted teeth.

“ _Of course, Mr Holmes,”_ the PM had said with an indulgent smile and had even dared pat his hand. _“We're not implying_ _that_ _you have to feel guilty. It was self-defence, nobody believes anything else. But it is still a lot to cope with and we only want your best.”_

“ _Yes, Mycroft, you need to get over it, and you will need help for it,”_ the lady had thrown in and stroked his shoulder.

Mycroft had hardly suppressed rolling his eyes. He didn’t need any help and even less he needed talking about what had happened. He had done this already very thoroughly...

After Eurus had died, he had allowed himself a few minutes of weakness before he had gotten back on his feet to do what was necessary. He had called the cavalry and made sure that Sherlock and John would be brought home. After that Mycroft had spent hours with some suits from the MI5 and a big fish from Scotland Yard. He knew that nobody thought he’d had a choice. It was all recorded after all. He had shot an armed woman who had been about to fire at him and who had killed a few people before. What else would he have been supposed to do? And even though they had been biologically related, it wasn’t as if he had sat down at the table for Christmas dinners with his sister for the last about thirty years… She had been a prisoner almost all of her life, and he had never visited her in Sherrinford. He had made sure that she had something to do and was of use for the kingdom in her own freaky way, but it wasn’t as if they'd had any sort of relationship. In any way he had talked about everything thoroughly, and he didn’t need any bloody therapist to ask him about his _feelings_. He was just so tired… He hadn't gotten any sleep after he had finally been home not long before dawn.

Sherlock had texted him. Of course Mycroft had expected that he would have plenty of questions. Redbeard, Jim Moriarty, why had Mycroft fucked up so greatly… But to his surprise, Sherlock had simply written:

_Are you at home now? How are you? SH_

Mycroft had answered after sitting down with a glass of scotch.

_Finally, yes. I'm fine. So are you and Doctor Watson as I was assured. Talk later. MH_

Then he had switched off his phone and stared into nothingness. He could still hear the echo of the shot that had ended Eurus' wasted life. He still saw the Garridebs hanging. Heard the governor pleading for shooting him so his wife would be spared. Saw him and the woman die. Saw his usually so cool brother freaking out and destroying this coffin after Eurus’ game with this silly pathologist. And he could still feel the weight of the gun in his hand and saw his sister reaching up to her deadly wound.

Of course he was shaken. Not even the Iceman was able to put this aside so quickly. But he so didn’t need a bloody psycho-doc to ask him about his feelings. They were none of her business. Mycroft coped with everything by himself and this would be no exception.

And still she looked at him with this stupid, compassionate expression. “You avoided talking about your feelings the entire time, Mr Holmes. We need to make another appointment so…”

He stood up and silenced her with a harsh gesture of his hand. “No, we do not,” he said coldly. “I need to go back to work now, if you excuse me.” And then he stalked out of the room while calling for his driver to bring him to the Diogenes Club for the next meeting.

*****

When he finally came back into his office, it was almost eight pm. He would just check if anything urgent had to be done and then go home to get at least eight hours of sleep. It would be a luxury for him to sleep so long, but he was not completely deaf to the needs of his body.

He asked Anthea ,who was still sitting at her desk, if anything needed his immediate attention. She told him that she had taken care of anything she could and delegated the rest to Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin.

Feeling grateful, he nodded and went into his office. He would just make a double check and then leave.

He hadn't been sitting for longer than a minute when Anthea knocked. He sighed, being rather sure what he had to expect now after ignoring someone's texts during the day. “Yes, send him in,” he said loudly.

A few seconds later, Sherlock was standing before his desk. “Brother,” he said calmly.

He looked somewhat _soft_ , Mycroft stated. It did surprise him after the coldness Sherlock had shown when Eurus had died in front of him. Well, perhaps he had visited a certain pathologist and had gotten some comfort and was feeling well now. Or maybe Doctor Watson had taken care of that…

“Sherlock,” he said, suddenly feeling... lonely? No. He never felt lonely. It had been just two insane days in a row, that was all. “I guess it won't work if I tell you we'll talk tomorrow.”

“Not really.” Sherlock sat down in the visitor's chair.

Mycroft nodded. “I supposed so. Go ahead.”

“Jim Moriarty. He had a connection with Eurus.”

That hadn't been exactly hard to figure out after they had heard him welcome them to the _final problem_ in Sherrinford and had seen his ugly face numerous times on these bloody screens.

“Yes. He visited her five years ago. To get her working for us, I needed to provide her with certain rewards. They only had five minutes together.”

Sherlock nodded as if had expected something like this. “I suppose you didn’t monitor their conversation?”

He shook his head. “No. That was the condition. I'm sorry. I know this is insufficient but what else shall I do? I know that he turned your life upside down. I have no idea why he wanted to target you and if he was under her spell. I suppose we'll never find out.” Of course Sherlock would ask now why he hadn't bothered telling him about his sister even when Moriarty had shown up. But Sherlock didn’t.

“Probably not. Who was Redbeard? I guess he wasn't our dog.”

Mycroft bit his lip. This was a tougher subject. “No. We never had a dog.” And he explained Sherlock that Redbeard had in fact been Victor, his childhood friend, and that he had disappeared for good in exactly the same way Mycroft had told him and the doctor. He could see that this broke down Sherlock's memory-barriers, and he looked shaken now.

“Why did you never tell me about it? About her?” he finally asked hoarsely, leaning forward in his chair.

Mycroft sighed. “You had chosen to forget both Eurus and Victor, Sherlock. Why would I have reminded you?” All he had wanted was protecting him. Always. Well, he had done a _great_ job with that…

Sherlock stared at him in a very disturbing way for a minute, and then he nodded. “What will you tell our parents?”

Mycroft cringed. “Nothing. Just like before.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That won't work. The press will not be silent about it. Several people have died. An entire prison has been compromised for months, if not years. This story is too good to be ignored. One of the guards or even inmates could talk.”

“I've made sure they won't print this story.”

“I know them – you know them! One of them could publish it nonetheless. You have to tell them.”

Mycroft could imagine this conversation pretty well. Not only had he and Uncle Rudy told them that Eurus had died in this fire and kept them from having any contact with her for several decades – in the end Mycroft had even killed her. That was not a story any mother or father wanted to hear. Suddenly he was feeling sick.

Sherlock leaned back again. “You'll have to talk to them. I'll be there, too.”

“You would do that?” _For me?_

“Well, you didn’t have a choice but to shoot her, and I guess if we tell them the story together, they might be more amenable to accept it.”

Mycroft doubted that pretty much, but he was very grateful nevertheless. “Sherlock, what I said yesterday… About me despising you… I didn’t mean a word. I guess you've figured out at once that I wanted you to shoot me, not John.”

“Yes, of course, and I've explained it to John. And I know you didn’t mean any of it. Even though there were certainly times when you had enough reason to despise me.”

Mycroft knew very well which times. He shook his head. “No, I've never done that, Sherlock. I know you've never felt comfortable with me since you've become a man, but be assured I've never thought badly of you.”

Had he really just said this? Had this therapy-lesson messed with his brain? This was very close to talking about feelings… He bit his lip, waiting for a snarky reply. But then – Sherlock had sounded rather self-loathing, too. Probably it was the aftermath of the previous day.

Sherlock didn’t answer but he looked at him as if to question sort of everything that had happened – or not happened – over the past decades. They had been so close when Mycroft had been a fat child and Sherlock the cute little boy. Not even his friendship with Victor had changed anything about it. But then they had drifted apart and their relationship had become worse and worse. Mycroft had always hoped to once reconcile with him, but then John Watson had appeared on the scene, rapidly becoming Sherlock's new _family_. He hadn't needed Mycroft at all anymore after that. And of course he would never do. And again Mycroft felt this pang of something devastating. He couldn’t name the feeling, and he didn’t even want to try.

Sherlock got up. “You look very tired. Perhaps you should call it a night now and go home.”

Mycroft nodded after recovering from the shock that Sherlock had sounded so caring. “I only wanted to make sure that I haven’t missed anything today and then I've planned to do exactly that.”

Sherlock nodded. “Let me know when you've made an appointment with our parents so I can be there,” he said and turned to leave.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft held him back to his own surprise.

The detective stood and met his gaze.

“Thank you for coming. And for your understanding. I apologise for what you had to go through yesterday, and by the hands of Moriarty before. I hope you'll find happiness now.” With either John or Molly Hooper… And what sort of brother was he to not be sure which one it would be? Given Sherlock's connection with Irene Adler and this rather convincing _I love you_ , Molly would be the safer bet. But John meant so much to him, and he was single now, too… Mycroft was very sure that his brother could have each of them. Hell, given his looks and fascinating personality, he could have them all and they would probably be happy to have at least a piece of him…

To his surprise, Sherlock walked back a few steps. “I'm sorry that I made you shoot her, Mycroft. I knew that I had to drop the gun to be believable. And I couldn't reach it in time when she was there. I was too worried that someone could watch the monitors and warn her if I picked it up before she arrived. But I thought John would be able to kill her. You didn’t want to have blood on your hands, and now you do.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I was talking about innocent blood, Sherlock. If there is such a thing. Eurus wasn't innocent, and I didn’t have a choice.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock assured him in his calm, deep voice.

He decided to leave right away now; he wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway, and if Anthea said that there was nothing urgent to be taken care of, he had every right to believe her. He came around the desk and slipped into his coat and then grabbed his briefcase and his umbrella and his coat. “I'm glad you didn’t shoot me, Sherlock, even though God knows I deserved it for causing this mess in the first place.” Again this strange openness! What had this witch of a therapist done with him? Had he gone through some kind of brainwash without noticing it?

He dropped everything when Sherlock embraced him. He _embraced_ him! He hadn't done that for about thirty years – well, apart from the day before of course. But then his arms had been around his shoulders, not his waist.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock whispered next to his ear, his arms firm around Mycroft. “It was her fault and hers alone. I would have never shot you.”

And then he was gone and Mycroft was standing there, staring at the door like the silliest of all goldfish. It took him almost two minutes to be able to move again and pick up his stuff to finally go home, feeling shaken, confused, grateful and overwhelmed. Perhaps these horrors would even make them get closer, make them become two brothers who could be on good terms and get along, make them forget all the resentments and the mutual bashing. It was all Mycroft craved for.

# 3

  
_Eurus stormed towards him, her eyes full of craziness, screaming and cursing him, her hand with the weapon pointing at his head, and Mycroft raised the gun and fired. But in the last second Eurus head disappeared when she let herself drop on the floor, and he could see Sherlock's wide open eyes before the bullet hit him right between them and fell backwards with a loud scream, and Eurus started to laugh before she scratched him with long nails._

Mycroft almost fell out of his bed when he awoke from this horrible dream, shaking and with a heart beating at triple speed. He had never even thought about how easily this could have happened. If Eurus had stumbled or indeed let herself fall, he could have shot Sherlock, and then there would have been no way in hell to go on with his life. His brother meant more to him than anything, no matter how nastily Sherlock had treated him the past twenty years. If he lost Sherlock, let alone by accidentally killing him, he would be lost.

He lay on his back, his pulse still racing. Knowing how silly he was – it had been a dream! – he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and texted Sherlock with shivering fingers, very well aware that it was four am and his brother was probably sleeping now.

_Are you all right? MH_

He didn’t have to wait more than twenty seconds for Sherlock's reply.

_Yes. I'm okay. What's wrong? SH_

_Nothing. It's fine. Hope I didn’t wake you up. MH_

_No, I couldn’t sleep. Just dozed for a couple hours. Why are you awake now? SH_

_Nightmare? SH_

Mycroft sighed. How could he have been so obvious... And so embarrassing…

_Yes. Just forget about it. MH_

_You can tell me what happened in your dream. Perhaps it helps. SH_

_Now you sound like this bloody therapist. MH_

_Oh, that was an insult! But anyway – I'm here if you change your mind. SH_

_Why are you so nice to me all at once? MH_

He regretted this text right after firing it out. But Sherlock answered at once.

_Perhaps I'm just sentimental after all that happened. Sorry. SH_

_No, don't be. It's nice. Just a little… unexpected. MH_

_Well, I can't blame you for thinking that. Sorry for the clown and the dwarf. SH_

_Yeah, that was nasty. Apology accepted. MH_

_Good. Will you call our parents tomorrow? SH_

_Yes. I will ask them to come to my office. Sending them a helicopter. And I'll let you know when they are supposed to be there. MH_

_I'll be there whenever it's necessary. SH_

_Thank you, Sherlock. I guess I can go on sleeping now. Hope you can do it, too. Thanks for listening. MH_

_You didn’t tell me anything. But I guess I know what the dream was about. I'm alive, brother, and I plan to stay alive. SH_

Mycroft shook his head over himself. Of course Sherlock would figure that out in no time.

_You better do. All your friends would miss you very much. MH_

_I guess they would. SH_

Mycroft wanted to ask him if he had spoken with Molly Hooper since this forsaken _I love you_ \- drama. Or whether John would move back into Baker Street once it was habitable again. He knew that Sherlock was staying with the doctor at the moment. He had wanted to offer him to stay in his house instead, but he hadn't dared do that. For sure Sherlock would not want that anyway. And in all probability, it wouldn’t have been a good idea… They would just get into one row after the other. No matter how nice Sherlock was to him now. He was not so sure that this would continue for very long… He would cherish it as long as it lasted.

_Good night, Sherlock. MH_

_Good night. What is left of it. SH_

*****

“Oh, wow, Sherlock – you look as if you didn’t sleep at all.” John Watson ruffled his hair and went for a cup.

“Morning John. Well, you don't look much better.”

“Had a nasty shift. Terribly busy. And it's not as if we’d gotten much sleep the other night… Did you have a case last night?” He sat down opposite of Sherlock.

Sherlock took a sip from his tea. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, it's not really surprising after all this shit.” They had not been able to talk much about the events of Sherrinford. Lestrade had called them in a few hours after they had gotten here and asked them about the Evans-murder. Then John had had two shifts at the hospital with only a couple of hours of rest in between as one of his colleagues had been sick. “I mean, finding out that you have a sister and then watch her getting shot by your brother. Good shot for sure. Have never seen him like this. First he behaves like a girl and refuses to get his hands dirty, then he fires like Billy the Kid with nerves of steel and then he breaks down and sobs. Looked almost human…”He shook his head. “Well, he turned back into the Iceman quickly enough.”

Somehow Sherlock didn’t like John's tone. “He texted me last night.” He just had to say it.

“What? Really? Why?”

“He didn’t really tell me but I deduced he'd had a nightmare of me getting killed instead of Eurus. Probably because she got out of the line of fire.”

“Fuck, yes. It could have happened! It would have killed him.”

Sherlock looked up. “You think so?”

“Well, of course! The only person in this world he gives a damn about is you. Sometimes he has a strange way of showing that, but it's clear as day that behind his mask he cares a lot for you.” John drank up his tea. “I guess we'll go to Baker Street now? See if there are any clients?”

Mrs Hudson had offered her spare room for consultations.

Sherlock wasn’t really feeling like solving cases but what else should he do. “Yes. But Mycroft will tell our parents about her and I've promised him to come over to his office when they are there.”

“Oh, right. You better do. What do you think? What will they say?”

“I have really no idea. But I guess he can do with some support.”

“Wow, it has really shaken you, right? A couple days ago the only thing you'd have offered your brother was a one-way-ticket to the moon and now you want to support him.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin. But then he grew serious. “I don't know, John. I see him with different eyes now. He was so brave. He never wanted to kill anyone and yet he did it to save us. And it affected him; he even had to show it so it must be really bad for him.”

“Yeah, I really bought this _shoot Doctor Watson_. I'd have never thought he would offer to sacrifice himself because of me. Well, of course he did that for you.”

“And because he felt guilty and still does. He allowed Eurus and Moriarty to communicate.” He hadn't had a chance to tell John about his conversation with his brother the day before.

“What? He told you? And what about this Redbeard-stuff? Did he explain that, too?”

Sherlock nodded and told him what Mycroft had said about his childhood friend who had gone missing and would never get found now.

John looked pretty disturbed when he was finished. “Fuck. If his parents are still alive, they'll still miss him. I would if it had been my son… No wonder they locked her away. He and this uncle couldn’t have done anything else. She was already totally crazy when she was a child. He should really not feel guilty about killing her… When I just think about how I _flirted_ with her…” He shuddered, and Sherlock absolutely understood it.

“Let's hope our parents will see it the same way. Mycroft always pretends to not get affected by any rejection. But he is much more sensitive than it seems.”

And why had he only realised this yesterday? It would have destroyed his brother if he had lost Sherlock. But it would also hurt him very much if he got disowned by their parents. Sherlock hoped so much this wouldn’t happen…

*****

“She was alive? All these years? And you are telling this us now that you've… killed her?” Mummy's eyes were huge, her lips trembling. Father sat beside her, looking as if he'd just had a stroke. Mycroft had tried to tell them the whole, devastating story in the most gentle way, but of course it hadn't helped.

“He had to kill her,” Sherlock said. He was standing a few metres apart from the desk his brother sat behind; their parents had taken place in the visitor's chairs. “She would have fired at him the next second.”

Mycroft shot him a grateful glance, and Sherlock tried to look as hopeful and encouraging as he could.

“There were three grown men in this room and one woman, and you couldn’t overwhelm her and disarm her?” Father asked, his voice full of disbelief and embarrassment.

“She was not just a normal woman,” Mycroft said quietly. “You know how she was as a child. She killed Sherlock's friend Victor and burnt Musgrave down. And she'd grown much worse since then.”

“That was never proven! And the fire could have been an accident.”

From what Mycroft had told him, Sherlock knew that their mother had very well agreed at locking Eurus away. Now she sounded as if Eurus had been a misunderstood, innocent child. After thirty years, it was easy to rewrite history though.

“She hid him somewhere and never told us where,” Mycroft said with forced patience. “And we all know that this fire was no accident.”

“You lied to us all this time. Even if she was guilty of all this, she remained our daughter,” Father sobbed. “We would have supported her and perhaps she could have been healed.”

 _Healed…_ Sherlock snorted and his parents stared at him with narrowed eyes. It looked rather comical…

What was not comical was Mycroft's expression. He looked as guilty and defeated as possible, staring down at his desk. There had been times when Sherlock would have liked to see him like this. But something told him they wouldn’t come back. His brother had always done his best, had wanted to keep everybody safe, even Eurus herself. He had kept her locked away, yes, but there had been no way in hell to let her loose on the world, and in Sherrinford she'd had privileges she wouldn’t have had in a normal prison. Playing the violin, reading every book she wanted, using her brain on complicated matters… It had not been paradise, but Mycroft had made sure it wasn’t hell, either. In fact he had tried to protect her from herself.

And she had thanked him by urging Sherlock to kill him. Because of course this was what she had planned. She had known how much John meant to him and that he would not fire at a young father who was widowed above all, making Rosie an orphan. What she had apparently missed was that beneath all these resentments, born of hurt, misunderstandings, disappointed hopes and whatever else, Sherlock did care for his brother. He had not forgotten that Mycroft had always been there for him in his darkest days and had been his chubby cuddle-partner when he'd been a child. He had chosen to ignore it, yes, but he had not forgotten it. As soon as Eurus had said _You still got the gun, haven't you?_ he had known that she expected him to shoot Mycroft. And he had also known at once that he wouldn’t do it. His improvised plan had worked out thanks to John's quick reaction and Mycroft's ability to shoot, and the final problem had been solved. _Who lives and who dies?_ Well, neither Mycroft nor John nor Sherlock but Eurus.

And he wouldn’t sit here and let their parents humiliate Mycroft for doing the right thing. They were talking both now, blaming and cursing him until Sherlock started walking to the desk. “Show them,” he said to Mycroft, who had endured all the reproaches with a stony expression that had not managed to conceal his hurt.

“What?” came from three Holmeses.

“Show them the footage.”

“Oh, no,” Mycroft protested. “I can't do that.”

And Sherlock understood that he had not watched it and wouldn’t want to watch it. But their parents would have to.

“Show them, Mycroft – otherwise they'll never understand.” He knew he sounded disrespectful and despicable, but that was how they were treating Mycroft, wasn’t it?

“Yes, show us!” Mummy demanded and Father nodded.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft leaned forward on his elbows. “It will be very hard to watch.”

“Show us!”

And in the end he did. He looked for the file on his laptop and then turned it to their parents. Sherlock was standing next to him so neither he nor his brother could (or in Mycroft's case had to) watch the clip but they heard it and saw their parents get pale and show expressions of sheer terror. Sherlock hoped that neither of them would have a heart attack of their own as this was the last thing his brother needed. He could sense Mycroft's tension and when the moment came when Eurus entered the room, he laid a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft looked up to him and their eyes locked and the older man gave him a grateful, affectionate smile that Sherlock had never seen from him, and he caught himself smiling back in the same way.

“Oh God,” Mummy mumbled for the tenth time and both Holmes parents cringed when the most important moment came – the shot that had killed their daughter. Mummy stood up so fast that her chair dropped and ran out of the room, holding her hand over her mouth. Father followed her, giving the brothers a terrified look.

“Well, at least she didn’t throw up onto your desk,” Sherlock stated.

Mycroft huffed out a laugh before he shook his head. “This is not funny, Sherlock. It must have been devastating for them.”

“But they begged for it. How could they judge you like this? You've explained it all thoroughly.”

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “What they see is that I kept her daughter from them and now it's too late because she's really dead now, and she died from my hands. How else should they have reacted?”

Sherlock admired his indulgence towards their parents. He couldn’t find any compassion for them in his heart. “They lost her thirty years ago and they know how she was. It's hard to believe they treat you so badly now and risk losing you as well.” But of course they wouldn’t if they came back or contact Mycroft afterwards. Mycroft would not turn them away, as little as he had ever turned Sherlock away. He had always wanted to be a good son. A good brother. A good man. Sherlock just wondered why it had taken him twenty years to get that…

He realised that his hand was still on Mycroft's shoulder. It was hard and warm under his grip and Mycroft didn’t seem to mind. And somehow Sherlock wanted this physical contact. It was a comfort for his brother but it also just felt good.

They both winced when the door opened again. Mummy had red eyes from crying and her face and her hair were wet. She had apparently thrown up indeed and washed her face after it, so she had obviously made it to the bathroom. But Sherlock saw at once that they had not come back to get at Mycroft's throat again.

“God, it must have been so horrible,” she sobbed, clinging to Father's hand. The old man didn’t look any less shaken than her. “She was like the devil…” She tumbled forward and Mycroft got up and walked around his desk quickly to embrace her.

Sherlock watched her sobbing at his chest and Father patting Mycroft's arm, and he finally relaxed, only realising now how tense he had felt as well. The Holmes family as it had been since Eurus had disappeared behind locked doors was together again.

He watched them talking for a while. Mycroft promised them to have Eurus' ashes handed over to them so they could give her a funeral close to their home and then Mycroft organised their parents' trip back home in a helicopter. In the end the elder Holmeses embraced both brothers and left. Mummy was still sobbing, but she had apparently accepted that Mycroft had acted the way he'd had to. She demanded from both her sons that they would come over to them for Christmas again so they could spend some family time together. Both Mycroft and Sherlock assured her that they would show up.

Mycroft looked relieved when they had left. He turned to Sherlock after looking at the closed door for a moment. “Thank you for coming and your support, Sherlock. It… means a lot to me.”

At another time, Sherlock would have mocked him for being sentimental. But these times were over as well. But he just had to tease him a bit. “I knew that you would be too nice to them. Let them manhandle you. Nodding like the good son you are…”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I'm not only the smart one but also the weak one as it seems.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You're not weak at all; you never were. You're just too indulgent.”

His brother huffed out a laugh. “Don't tell that anybody. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Agreed. Well, I guess I better let you go on working.” Mycroft's phone had vibrated a couple of times and it had taken him a lot of effort not to look at it Sherlock was sure.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I'll better get going.” He hesitated for a moment and looked down on his feet. “We'll stay in touch?”

Sherlock felt suddenly very guilty. He had pushed Mycroft away for so long and even though the past two days had been different, Mycroft still feared that Sherlock would go on rejecting him now that the drama with Eurus and Moriarty was over and everything was sorted with their parents. But Sherlock wouldn’t do that. It had affected him deeply how Mycroft had reached out to him the night before and how strangely close they had become over the last days.

He made a step to close the distance between them and slung his arms around his brother's neck, earning the expected shocked gasp. “Yes, of course we will,” he said quietly and shuddered in a slightly disturbing way when Mycroft embraced him with one arm. His brother smelled from aftershave, deodorant and black tea, and his skin was very warm under his grey shirt. Sherlock could even feel his heartbeat, and it was rather fast.

“I'm glad,” Mycroft said equally quietly and pressed him surprisingly tight before he stepped back, causing Sherlock's arms to slide off of him.

They shared a smile, and then Sherlock grabbed his coat and left after a strangely shy _goodbye_ that was returned in the same way. Sherlock had embraced John, Mary and Lestrade over the past years, and he had kissed Molly and Mrs Hudson on the cheek and had been kissed by Janine and Irene and of course he had cuddled with Rosie. None of these contacts had made him feel so light and… accepted. In fact neither of them had caused any real reaction in him. But finally being on honestly good terms with his brother meant a lot to him, and he had really liked to touch him and being touched. It had been comforting and just… nice.

His phone signalised a text when he left the building.

_Hi Sherlock! Can you come to the morgue? There's a body I would like you to have a look at. X Greg Lestrade_

John wouldn’t be able to join them as he would pick up Rosie from the babysitter now. And for some reason Sherlock was not keen on going to the morgue… But perhaps it was an interesting case… And if he could deal with the crazy Eurus and reconcile with his brother and endure the raging Holmes parents, he would be able to face Molly Hooper. In the end John had texted her about the events of Sherrinford so she had to know he had not meant what he had said.

_I'm on my way. SH_

# 4

  
  


Two pairs of eyes gazed into Sherlock's when he entered the autopsy room. Lestrade looked friendly and compassionate; he knew what Sherlock had gone through in Sherrinford. But Molly's look made him cringe and he was not far from turning around and leaving. But of course he would have to face her one day. He knew without exchanging a word with her though that she believed that he had been serious with these three forsaken words, even though she had forced him to say it first. How could anyone be so deluded? After all these years that they'd known each other she seriously believed that? He could hardly suppress a sigh and wished John was with him at least. But he had to face it alone.

“Hi,” he greeted them. “What do we have here?” He looked down at the corpse of a young man who had been seriously manhandled before his death. He had been a very good-looking man but now he was covered in bruises and had strangulation marks around his neck. “Looks rather obvious.”

“Hi Sherlock. Well, the cause of death is not in question. But we are trying to figure out these marks.” The DI pointed at two deep marks around the biceps of the man.

Sherlock stepped closer and narrowed his eyes. “It looks… as if his sleeve garters had been burnt into his skin.”

“Sleeve garters? What is that?” Molly asked and joined him at staring at the body. And _her_ body was pressed against Sherlock's in the go even though there was enough space to avoid any contact.

Sherlock bit his lips and turned to Lestrade, who looked pretty confused. Of course he didn’t know about this forsaken game that had made Sherlock confess feelings for the pathologist that he didn’t have and would never have. “You know what it is?” he asked the policeman while moving away from the woman. To his relief she didn’t follow him.

“Isn't that something old-fashioned that men used for shortening their sleeves? Does anyone actually still wear them?”

Sherlock grinned. The DI should better not let Mycroft hear that. Apparently he had never seen him without his jacket. Sherlock had not known that his brother used to wear these strange helpers until he and John had broken into his house after sending their accomplices to scare the politician. Sherlock had felt rather dumbfounded. His brother had very long arms so the sleeves couldn’t be too long. Why was he wearing them? Who did ever see them? It had made him feel confused for a moment before he had moved on with the show. Now he thought about it again. Why had it bothered him to see Mycroft with metal rings around his arms? It was unusual and strange but really nothing to fret about.

_Who did ever see them? Who is he wearing them for? And why the hell do I wonder about that?_

“Um, Sherlock?”

“Oh, sorry. Apparently some men still wear them. This was a sadistic murder for sure. A personal one. He knew his killer.”

Lestrade nodded. “That makes sense. We don't have any other cases like this.”

“Was he gay?”

“Yes. We should look for a lover, right?”

“I would do it.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” In this moment Lestrade's phone vibrated. He sighed. “Gotta go. Molly, can you show Sherlock the marks under his feet? Totally forgot about them. Which instrument could that have been? Text me, would you?” With this he was gone, and Sherlock was alone with Molly and the corpse.

“Well, yes. Look at that.” Molly walked around the body and pointed at his feet.

Sherlock needed a lot of self-control to refrain from rolling his eyes. He didn’t really need help to find them… He looked at the perfectly pedicured feet. “Hot spoon,” he said then and texted his conclusion to Lestrade. “Well, see you then…”

“Wait!”

He turned around without looking into her eyes. “Yes?”

“Well… I'll be finished soon and perhaps we could… go somewhere together?”

“Molly. I believe that John texted you. My sister forced me to call you. She said she would blow up your house if I didn’t make you say you loved me. You know what you told me to do then. That's it.”

Molly shook her head vehemently. “No. I heard you. You were serious. And why not? We've grown closer with every year! It's inevitable!”

“No, no. I'm gay, Molly. Gay. Like him.” Sherlock pointed at the corpse, close to saying he found the dead man more attractive than her.

She cringed as if he had hit her. But then she shook her head again. “Did you ever sleep with a man?”

“Well, _hello_! Isn't that a tad indiscreet?” One didn’t ask people that! Even he knew that.

“Did you?” She stared at him with big eyes.

Sherlock sighed. “No, as a matter of fact I didn’t.” He had never met a man who he had wanted to do anything with. But he had known that he was gay since he'd been a little boy. The first man he had seen naked had been his brother. Mycroft had been about twelve and had been going through his chubby phase. And even then Sherlock had found his body… attractive? Had he? With five?! Sherlock did feel slightly uncomfortable at this thought. And he had seen Mycroft rather often without clothes. He could watch the fat disappear from his body. Mycroft had developed into a man in front of his eyes and had gotten slim, trained, and handsome. Handsome?! Well, yes. Totally objectively Sherlock could state that his brother was a handsome man. He recalled how hairy he had become when he had gone through puberty. Of course Sherlock had not seen his body for about twenty years now, but this had certainly not changed. And why did he think about it at all? Molly must have confused him completely.

“So you can't really know it!” she went on. “And this dead woman your brother made you look at.” She gestured at the stretcher. “You recognised her and so you had seen her naked.”

“Well, in fact it wasn’t her,” Sherlock corrected her. “I saw her naked for a few seconds because she opened her door for John and me wearing nothing. Obviously I didn’t look at her thoroughly because I identified the body as hers even though she was still very much alive.” He straightened his back. It was time to speak clearly. “I am gay, Molly. We've become friends, yes, and I owe you a lot. You did so much for me and I respect you. But I am not interested in you in any romantic or sexual way. I never have been and I never will.”

Her eyes filled up with tears. “But I heard you. You meant it,” she insisted stubbornly.

Sherlock fumbled out his phone and put the speaker on. Then he chose a contact. “John?”

“ _Hi Sherlock. I'm at Baker Street now. Where are you?”_

“I looked at something for Lestrade. John. I love you.”

“ _What?!”_

“I love you,” Sherlock said in the same tone he had used for Molly the second time he had said it.

“ _Oh. I… Fuck, I mean…”_

“Forget it, John. Molly is listening.”

“ _Oh. Oh! I see. Um, not so nice, right?”_

Sherlock said _see you later,_ _bye_ and ended the connection. “So… I guess that was clear enough.”

She shook her head again. “That doesn’t prove anything. You do love him.”

Sherlock had to admit she had a point. He did love John. The doctor had been more like a brother for him all these years than his real brother… “Yes, in a way. In a non-romantic way!”

“So you meant it. Both times.”

“No, I didn’t! Not when I said it to you!” He knew this was rather cruel but he so had enough of this conversation. “I need to go back to Baker Street now.”

“Call your brother!”

“What?!”

“Say it to him!”

Sherlock was speechless. Who did she think she was? “You're going too far, Molly,” he said and his voice sounded steely.

“Call him! We both know that you just love to hate him. And he feels nothing for anybody. I'm shivering when I see him. If he believes you, I will do, too.”

He didn’t know what to do. He should have turned away and leave this disturbed woman behind him. Were all women he dealt with crazy? His sister, well, nothing had to be said about _her_ … Mrs Hudson, who had kidnapped him to drive him to John in her bloody _trunk_. And now Molly… Was she really so stupid to think his brother didn’t have feelings? That he, Sherlock, really hated him? He had always thought the female gender was the more sensitive…

“Please,” she said quietly. “Do it.”

Sherlock bit his lip and even though he didn’t really know why, he chose Mycroft's number. His brother answered after two seconds.

“ _Hi Sherlock. How are you?”_ His brother was happy to hear from him.

“I'm fine. Listen, Mycroft. I love you.” This time he said it in the right way at once.

There was silence on the other end.

“Mycroft? You're still there?” Sherlock felt as strange as he had never felt before. He hated Molly for making him do this. But then – he hadn't really had to actually do it. He could – and should - have just told her to fuck off. And still he had not done it.

“ _Um, yes. I…”_ Mycroft started, his voice trembling and soft. But then he understood. _“You're in the morgue, right? Wanted to prove a point?”_ He sounded… upset. Disappointed. Hurt.

“I was forced to,” Sherlock said very quietly.

“ _I see. Well, I'll better be going.”_ Mycroft's voice was flat and cold.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock brought out and then Mycroft ended the connection.

He turned around to Molly slowly. “I hope you’re happy now,” he said, his voice as cold as ice, and he knew how his eyes were looking.

Molly's terrified expression and her backing away from him told him enough. He had never looked at her like this before. With eyes full of wrath and hatred. And yet – deep inside he was much more upset about himself than about her insolence. He stalked out of the room, ignoring her voice that told him she was so sorry and that she hadn't wanted to… He didn’t hear the rest anymore. All he could think of was how to repair what he had just stupidly destroyed. By telling him the truth… but in a way that he had to think that it had been a lie.

*****

Mycroft had not taken his phone to his awfully long meeting with the PM. The older man hated to be interrupted by a ringing or even vibrating phone. But Mycroft didn’t have the wish to take it with him anyway. The phone call from Sherlock had stupidly made him feel sad. But he didn’t know why it had surprised him. It was so easy. Sherlock had met Molly Hooper and she hadn't believed that he hadn't meant this _I love you_ \- nonsense. And so she had told him to call the very last person he loved to make him believe he did. And for a moment he had really thought Sherlock had meant it. Well, it seemed that he was not a tiny bit more intelligent than Miss Hooper. Of course it also meant that his brother didn’t love _her_ … But why should this bother him in any way? His brother could love whomever he wanted. Probably the doctor… At least not Mycroft. Even though it would have been two different sorts of love anyway.

He shook the thought off. It didn’t matter. And of course it didn’t change anything about his own feelings for his brother. Sherlock was the most important person in his life and would always be, not matter how he treated him…

“There is a package for you in your office,” Anthea told him with a big smile when he had reached her desk and had asked her if anything of importance had occurred in his absence.

His heart was beating faster when he opened the door. A carton was standing on his desk. A huge, white carton from a famous bakery. A stupid smile tore at his lips. He opened the carton and saw a big, deliciously looking chocolate cake, accompanied by a hand-written card.

_Sorry, Mycroft._

_I shouldn’t have let her talk me into doing that. Now she knows for sure that I don't love her._

_But I didn’t lie to you._

_Sherlock_

Mycroft's mouth fell open. He blinked rapidly to make sure he didn’t have hallucinations. His fingers stroked over the white card. And then he smiled. He took his phone and typed a text.

_Thank you, Sherlock. This is a delicious cake. But I can't eat it all alone. Would you like to share? MH_

The answer came at once.

_Very much so. When and where? SH_

His smile got deeper.

_My house? 7? I'll bring dinner and we can eat the cake for dessert? MH_

_Deal. Chinese would be fine. SH_

_Chinese it will be then. See you then. MH_

_Yes, brother mine. See you soon. SH_

Mycroft stored his phone in his shirt pocket. He was feeling better than he had… ever done.

*****

Sherlock arrived a few minutes before seven, feeling strangely nervous. This nervousness had grown since the moment he had agreed with Mycroft to meet up. Well, when had he had dinner with his brother for the last time? Or having been invited to his house? Actually never. Probably he wouldn’t have shown up before Sherrinford anyway and Mycroft would have certainly not expected him to do it. But he knew it was more to his stomach making funny movements than simple awkwardness.

He had known it from the moment he had said it.

He had told Mycroft that he loved him, and he had meant it.

That's why he had done it instead of telling Molly to go to hell.

_So what? I love him. He's my brother. Nothing unusual about it. No matter how I've treated him before, I always did. Very deep inside…_

_Yes, but that's not what you meant. You_ _**want** _ _him deep inside…_

_Shut up!_

Sherlock's heart was hammering when he rang the doorbell. He was here because Mycroft had invited him and because he wanted them to develop a really good relationship. A brotherly relationship!

_Yeah, keep telling that to yourself, perhaps you'll even believe it._

He cringed when the door opened up.

His brother smiled at him. “Oh, you're in time. Come in! And give me your coat.”

Sherlock deduced him within a second while he was slipping out of his Belstaff. _He was afraid I would not show up. And he is happy to see me…_

_And you are very happy to see him!_

Yes, he was. It was nice to be on good terms with him. Finally. But he also noticed things he would have not wasted a thought on two days ago. Mycroft was dressed perfectly as always, wearing a light-grey suit with – he only realised this now – very tight trousers as he had done for quite some time now actually. Gone were the baggy suits of a few years ago. When he turned around to lead the way, Sherlock's look was glued to his behind. It was round and firm and trained and it moved when he was walking on his very long, very well-shaped legs.

Sherlock was close to turning around and running away. This couldn’t really happen, could it? He should have known it before though. The sudden impulses to touch and embrace Mycroft. He who had never longed for human contact. Never. He had done it when he had thought it was required or expected but it hadn't given him anything. But the touches he had shared with Mycroft over the past days had indeed done that…

He plastered a smile on his face when Mycroft turned around to him with raised eyebrows.

“You're all right, Sherlock?”

“Oh yes. Um, did you bring dinner? If not, I could go fetch it.” _And pour some cold water_ _over my head while I'm away. Or into my pants…_

Mycroft smiled but it looked a bit confused. He knew that something was up but thank God he wasn’t able to deduce it.

_Well, of course not. He wouldn’t expect in a million years that you just gazed at his arse. And by the way – did you notice his bulge? Oh yes, you did._

Sherlock caught himself staring at Mycroft's crotch. The trousers were very tight there, too, and they revealed more than they concealed. Mycroft was _huge_. How could he have overlooked that before?! And why couldn’t he overlook it now…?

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes,” Mycroft assured him, sounding cautious. “Into there, please.”

Sherlock nodded and stumbled into the living room where the table was set nicely, including two candles and several glasses. It looked as if his brother was prepared for a _date_.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “The light here is a bit harsh so I thought this would be more convenient. And I wasn’t sure what you would like to drink…”

_He's every bit as nervous as I am…_

Sherlock forced himself to calm down. “Don't worry, it's fine. It… looks nice.”

Mycroft smiled. “I'm glad you like it. So… what would you like to drink?”

“Scotch!”

Mycroft laughed, sounding surprised. “Okay. The hard stuff then. I'll join you.”

Probably Mycroft needed it, too… Or didn’t he? Sherlock thought he must have gone crazy to expect his brother, the personified decency, could return his strange desires. Because that's what Sherlock did. He desired his own brother. It had to be the shared experience. The way Mycroft had killed their sister to save them. It had set something sick and strange free. Sherlock could in no way act on these feelings. For sure it would destroy whatever bond they were about to develop. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy spending time with Mycroft.

He watched Mycroft pouring the drinks for them and his heart missed a few beats when their hands met in the moment Mycroft handed him his glass with a smile. He knew this would get very tough.

“I'll take care of our meal now, please, take a seat.” Mycroft gestured to the table.

Sherlock nodded. “You don't need a hand?”

_In your trousers?_

_Shut up!_

“Oh, thank you, but I'll be fine. I'll be back in no time. Make yourself comfortable, brother mine.”

_But not by undressing and lingering on the couch when he comes back!_

Sherlock pressed his teeth together. He was not used to speak with himself in two voices, one of them full of malice…

“You're sure everything is okay?” Mycroft sounded concerned now, and Sherlock knew he studied his face so thoroughly to look for signs of drug abuse.

“Totally,” Sherlock assured him and almost stumbled over his own feet when he walked to the table. He gave Mycroft an apologetic grin and sat down. “I'm fine. Totally sober.” _Yet…_

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply…” Mycroft blushed. “Well, see you in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded. If he had ever needed something to calm down, it was now. But he was sure Mycroft didn’t have anything he could give him.

_Except for his…_

_SHUT UP!_

Sherlock could feel sweat appear on his forehead and cursed himself. If he didn’t get himself under control, Mycroft would force him to do a blood test right now, and he couldn’t even blame him…

He closed his eyes, rubbing his face, trying to find something in his mind palace that could ground him. But all he saw was Mycroft's smiling face and his trousers snuggling to his bottom and his genitals.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard his brother coming back. He looked up and tried to look normal but Mycroft's expression told him he wasn’t very successful. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something while putting the plates onto the table when his phone rang. His landline…

“Mummy,” Mycroft said. Apparently nobody else called him on this line. “I'll call her back later.”

“Oh, answer it. You can always tell her she interrupted your dinner.”

“Right. If you don't mind…” Mycroft hurried to take the call. “You can start already! Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t want to start eating without him even though the food smelled and looked delicious.

“How are you and Father coping? – I see. – Oh, that was quick. – Oh. – I don't think so, no, it would… - Yes, I know. – I can ask him, he is here. – We're having dinner together. – Yes, I think so too. – Wait a second…” He put the phone aside. “Mummy asks if we want to come down on Saturday for Eurus' funeral. They will send them the ashes tomorrow.”

Sherlock's first thought was: _no way in hell_. But then he reconsidered and nodded. “Yes, I would like to.”

Mycroft stared at him, his mouth open. Then he cleared his throat. “Yes, Mummy, Sherlock wants to so we'll both come. Yes, we'll stay one night with you then.” He gave Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock nodded vehemently – and felt his cheeks blush. Was he mad? But of course they would sleep in separate rooms… And still…

Mycroft didn’t speak with their mother for much longer, excusing himself with the dinner, and asking for being told the exact time when he and Sherlock should be in their parents' house. The cemetery was not far away from it.

When he had finished the call, he came to Sherlock. “It will only be the family,” he said. “I am very surprised you want to go there. And I, the one who shot her…”

“I guess nobody will be told that she had still been alive all this time. That's why only we will come. And you really didn’t have a choice. Come, let's eat now.”

They started to devour their meals, and then Sherlock said: “I would like to see Musgrave. What is left of it… And I would like to… you know… try to find Victor. Are his parents still alive?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, they are. But I don't have much hope that we can figure it out now, Sherlock. Nobody was able to do it when he disappeared. But we can try. And of course we can go to Musgrave. It's about twenty kilometres from our parents' house. The ruins are still there. As are these strange gravestones.”

“Perhaps the dates will tell us where he is!”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Maybe. I'm absolutely willing to try.”

“John said it.” Sherlock saw Mycroft's questioning look. “He said if he was Victor's dad, he would still want to bring him home.”

“Yes, I understand. John does have a point.”

Had he just sounded jealous or was this just wishful thinking?

“I called him first. To prove Molly that I can say this… line… very convincingly.”

“Oh. And did he buy it?” Mycroft's blue eyes bore into Sherlock's.

“Yes, he did. But then… Molly said I did love him. And of course I do. He – well, that sounds strange and please don't be offended… but he was more like a brother to me over the past years than you.”

Mycroft didn’t look in the least offended. He looked relieved for a second before he closed his shields again. He smiled and it looked so sweet that Sherlock melted. “Oh, of course. He was always there for you. Well, except for some times when he wasn’t that fond of you.”

“Yeah, well… We got over it. He is my best friend. So actually I haven’t proven anything to Molly when I told you and him that, you know… But of course she is so silly to think that I don't care for you.”

Mycroft swallowed. “She can't know it better. Because you only started doing that, when, yesterday?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I always did. I know I've never shown it to you but I did. You and John are the most important people in my life. In this order.”

He had not said it, had he? That his feelings for Mycroft were not brotherly?

Mycroft stared at him nonetheless. Sherlock would have killed for knowing what he was thinking now. What he was _feeling_ now… “I'm very glad, Sherlock,” he finally said quietly. “And I'm sure you know how much you mean to me.”

_No, tell me! Do you stare at my arse when I turn away from you? Think about how I look without my pants now?_

He didn’t say it. He just nodded and smiled and then they went on eating.

“How was your day?” Mycroft asked when they were both finished. “Apart from the persistent Miss Hooper?”

“Fine. I had an interesting case. The victim was tortured with his own sleeve garters.”

“Oh, nasty! How?”

Sherlock explained what he had seen in the morgue. Mycroft listened, fully concentrated on his words.

“The poor man,” he said then.

“Yes. I hope they'll find the killer. And I hope Molly leaves me alone now.” He shook his head. “She refused to believe that I'm gay just because I've never actually had sex with anyone.” He watched his brother closely when he said this. Mycroft seemed to be very interested… “But I am absolutely sure that I only like men.”

Mycroft nodded. “But you… have never met someone you would have liked to give it a try with? Sorry if that's too personal.”

Molly could learn a few things from his brother. Actually everything… Not that this would help… He hadn't answered to her desperate-sounding texts. He had enough of her.

Sherlock shook his head. “It could only be someone who can live up to me, intellectually. He would have to be tall, and dark-haired and handsome and of course very smart. Like you and me.” He was amazed by his own courage. But still he hadn't given too much away.

Mycroft blushed. “Oh, I'm flattered that you include me in this description.” He sounded embarrassed, yes. But also very pleased. And Sherlock knew this was _not_ wishful thinking…

“Of course. I have never met anyone else who fits it all.”

“What about Adler?”

 _Oh, yes. This nasty old story…_ “Well, I did fall for her intellect in a way and of course she was easy on the eyes. But she is missing out on the most important point. She is not a man.”

“So you never… wanted anything from her?” His face clearly said: _why have I been so stupid to believe that?!_

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Of course not. Well, what do you say: shall we get the cake now and move over to the couch?”

Mycroft was up in a second. “Yes. I'll make coffee.”

“And I'll cut the cake.”

*****

Ten minutes later Sherlock carried the small, round table from the corner to the couch so Mycroft could put the tray with the plates full of chocolate cake and two cups with coffee on it. Then they took place.

Mycroft was feeling… totally strange. Confused. He had no idea what was happening between him and Sherlock. At first he had been terrified by Sherlock's irritated look at the candles, wondering what he, Mycroft, had thought when he had lit them. This cried for a romantic dinner, not a casual meal between two brothers!

_Yes, because that's what you had in mind… Romance!_

_Oh, no way!_ he had told this cheeky inner voice.

_Really? Harsh light? Come on! If Lady Smallwood had come around, you wouldn’t have given a damn about that! Actually you wouldn’t have invited her in the first place…_

Mycroft knew that this was true. And it scared him.

But then… There were clear indications that Sherlock was… interested in him. He had made a few things clear during their conversation:

  1. He was gay.

  2. He wasn't interested in the least in a romantic or sexual way in Molly Hooper, Irene Adler or John Watson or any other person, and he had never been.

  3. He did care for Mycroft. And he had done all the time.

  4. He had said that the only person he would be able to be attracted to would have to have the attributes that they both shared, and that he had never met anyone besides Mycroft who had them all.

  5. He had suggested going to their parents even though he usually avoided spending time with them at all costs.




This all would have been harmless. But Mycroft had caught him looking at a part of his body that was usually of no interest to a sibling…

“Hmm, delicious!” Sherlock sucked at his fork, making indecent noises with closed eyes, and Mycroft cursed his tight trousers.

This couldn’t happen?! He wasn’t getting an erection because his brother was eating cake next to him!

“Yes,” he croaked, almost choking at his own mouth full. “Very agreeable.”

He forced his arousal down with all he could, imagining Lady Smallwood naked in the rain, but it didn’t work.

He desired his baby brother. Longed for kissing this impossibly long neck, licking this spot behind his ear, sucking at his cheek- and hipbones, taking his dick into his mouth. Taking him… He was doomed…

But what if Sherlock really wanted the same?

_It can't be! We're brothers!_

_Who gives a damn! You are the two smartest men in England – you'll be able to deceive all the imbeciles! Nobody will ever find out._

_Yes, but… This would be abuse!_

_Sorry? Of whom? He is thirty-six, you are forty-three. He never does anything he doesn’t want to, and you are one of the most powerful men in the country. Neither of you could force the other one into doing something he doesn’t want to do!_

_I've never thought of him in this way!_

_Well, it's never too late as long as you are both still breathing. Look at him: he's gorgeous!_

Yes, he was. His hair was ruffled from the rain outside, his teeth were full of chocolate when he grinned at Mycroft now, he was looking very tired but he was the most beautiful man Mycroft had ever seen.

He had never had sex with anyone who had meant something to him. Because nobody had ever meant anything to him – except for Sherlock.

_It's a natural progression. You always loved him, and now you love him in one more way and you know that he shares your feelings! What are you waiting for!_

No, Mycroft would not do anything now. He would give himself and Sherlock time to overthink it. In three days they would go to their parents and stay a night under the same roof and until then he would avoid any personal contact with him. Texting was okay but he would not meet Sherlock. He wanted him to be sure. And he wanted to be sure himself.

_But above all you want_ _**him** _ _!_

_Oh, yes, I do…_

“Would you like another piece?” he offered when they had eaten up in a very tense silence. Sherlock had seemed to try to dig in his brain to find out what he was thinking but Mycroft had not opened his shields. If he didn’t want to be deduced by Sherlock, his younger brother wasn’t able to do it.

“Oh, I think I've had enough for now,” Sherlock declined. “What about another whiskey though?”

“I'm on my way.”

He stood up on rather unstable legs and then returned with filled glasses. And his heart was beating like a drum when Sherlock moved closer to him.

“I'm pretty tired,” Sherlock mumbled. “Not sure if I can go back to John now.”

It was so tempting. But no. Mycroft would not allow his desires to control his mind.

“I'll get my driver to take you to him,” he said.

He could see that Sherlock was hurt. And this couldn’t happen. He slowly put an arm around his shoulder. “I need to get up very early,” he said casually. “I'll be very busy until the weekend. Normally I take work home but I can't do that this weekend so I'll have to get it done before.”

Sherlock snuggled into his embrace – and looked at Mycroft's crotch. The proof of Mycroft's desire was hard to overlook… very literally…

“I see,” he said slowly with this unbelievably sexy voice. How could Mycroft have missed this for so long?

“But we'll take our time at the weekend,” Mycroft continued carefully. And then he moved his head and gently pressed a kiss onto Sherlock's temple. He could feel Sherlock's body shudder, and it was certainly not from feeling repulsed…

“Yes, we really should,” Sherlock played along. He had understood. “We can think about… how we can find Victor.”

“Yes. We should really use our brains.”

And then Sherlock lifted his head and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, sorry. Chocolate.” A big hand was raised and warm fingers stroked over Mycroft's face.

“Oh, yes, bad me. Left a trace as well.” Mycroft mimicked his gesture, softly touching the spot he had kissed even though it was perfectly clean.

It would have been so easy. There was no question anymore. They wanted it both. But it would be even sweeter if they waited a little more, wouldn’t it? It was so fresh. At least for him, and Mycroft was very sure that Sherlock had discovered his feelings only very recently as well. They just couldn’t do it now. No matter how much he wanted it…

“Well, I think I should leave then. Let you get some rest. And time to… think.” Sherlock stressed the _k_ in his unique way and got up.

“Shall I get the car for you?” Mycroft stood up as well.

“No, I guess after eating so much, I should walk back. I can still hail a cab if I change my mind.”

They slowly walked to the front door, their shoulders touching every few steps.

Mycroft helped Sherlock into his coat. Even this gesture was so… intimate.

“Good night, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding tender and soft. “It was very nice to spend time with you. I'm looking forward to the weekend.” _And I won't change my mind_ was clearly written between the lines.

“I can only agree,” Mycroft answered in the same tone, now reluctant to open the door for him to leave. “Please take care, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. “Don't worry. I wouldn’t want to miss out for the world. On seeing Musgrave and spending time with… the family.”

And then it happened. They bent forward in the same moment and then their lips met. Mycroft pulled back at once, his dick now achingly hard in his trousers, and a quick glance showed him that Sherlock had reacted to it as well.

Sherlock's eyes were dark with desire and Mycroft could see his pulse in his carotid.

And the next second they did it again. They kissed, and this time it was not a short peck. They opened their mouths in the same moment and their tongues pushed against each other. Mycroft tasted chocolate, scotch, Chinese noodles and the unknown flavour of Sherlock. Sherlock's arms were around his neck, Mycroft was holding him tight. And he knew if they didn’t stop now, they would go too far. It was too fast.

He broke the kiss. “Oh, Sherlock. I don't want you to go but…”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Take your time. We'll see each other on Saturday. Will you get a helicopter?”

“Yes. At least for our way there. Perhaps we can rent a car for driving back?”

“Sure. Can we text until then?”

“Of course.” His line was very secure and he knew Sherlock's was, too.

And then they kissed again, this time with closed mouths.

“Mycroft. Sleep well.”

“You too, Sherlock.” He stroked over Sherlock's hair and they shared a smile. And then Sherlock opened the door and left.

Mycroft watched him until he had disappeared around the corner after turning around three times, smiling and even waving the last time. Then the older Holmes brother closed the door and walked back to the living room. His heart was doing a funny dance. And then his phone vibrated.

_I'm already missing you. SH_

It was still hard to accept that this wasn’t a dream.

_So am I. I love you, Sherlock. MH_

Sherlock had said if first, hadn't he? It felt so natural to write it.

_I love you, too. SH_

Mycroft couldn’t wait for the weekend.

# 5

  
  


It was tough. A lot tougher than he had thought.

Mummy was holding a picture of little Eurus while the priest was speaking. They were standing around the little grave where the casket with the ashes was waiting to be buried. She was crying and snuggling against Father, who was looking shaken as well. Mycroft stared at the picture. She had looked so innocent. Except for her eyes. Their coldness gave her true self away, even at the age of five. She had been a monster. But she had also been his sister.

“Don't feel guilty, Mycroft. You always did what you could for her, and there was no choice in the end.”

Mycroft was so aware of his brother's presence, and despite the situation that was weighing heavily on him, he shuddered when Sherlock slung an arm around his waist. It wasn’t dangerous to do this now, right next to their parents. He was simply giving comfort. But it felt so good.

They had texted each other a lot over the past few days. Simple statements and questions about the other one's day. But in between there had been signs of deep affection.

_The PM is driving me mad. Wish I'd had spent the last two hours with you instead. MH_

_Anderson can't even find his own arse with a flashlight. You would know more about a crime scene after one look than he does after hours. SH_

_Lady Smallwood was just batting her eyelids on me. Should I tell her she looks like a rabid bat when she does that? MH_

_Molly texted me again to apologise. I told her she should forget it and leave me alone. SH_

_I miss you. MH_

_I miss you very much. SH_

They had not met, and during the helicopter-flight to their parents, they had kept their distance. But one look into Sherlock's eyes when they had met at the air field had shown Mycroft that Sherlock had not changed his mind in the least and was determined to cross the line tonight. Of course they couldn't really do too much under their parents' roof but they would for sure spend some time in the same bed as soon as the elder Holmeses were sleeping. Sherlock wanted it. And of course Mycroft wanted it, too. As soon as this day was over.

"Come boys, let's go home," Father said. He eyed his sons that were standing so close together. "Your mother and I are happy you get along so well now. At least something good has come out of this." He glanced at his daughter's little grave.

Mycroft nodded. If their father knew exactly how close they were now and were soon to become, he would not be quite that grateful.

It would have to remain a secret forever. To their parents and to anybody else. Nobody would accept it and of course it was against every moral and against the law. Mycroft could lose everything. But he knew that it was worth it. They were meant for each other; it was as simple as this. Sherlock had explained it perfectly. He had always looked for his equal, and Mycroft was exactly that. And without ever realising it, he had done the same. He was not a virgin but he was not far away from it. His few sexual encounters had been many years ago. It had not interested him because the men he had been with hadn't counted. Sherlock counted. He meant everything to him.

*****

“ _I... am... lost.”_ Sherlock gazed at Mycroft with wide eyes.

“ _Help... me... brother.”_ Mycroft continued.

“ _Save... my... life.”_

“ _Before... my... doom.”_

The brothers shared a look. Mycroft felt disturbed to say the least. Then they went on deciphering the combination of the words of Eurus' song and the dates on the gravestones. It had been Sherlock's idea to try it. It worked.

“ _I... am... lost.”_ the younger brother slowly continued. He looked as shaken as Mycroft was feeling. They were standing in front of the ruins of Musgrave. Seeing this had woken up the rest of Sherlock's memories, and Mycroft had seen how it was affecting him.

“ _Without... your... love.”_ Mycroft said quietly.

“ _Save... my... soul.”_ Sherlock's voice was a whisper.

“ _Seek... my... room.”_

They fell silent, the wind messing with their hair, their eyes sad.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally spoke. “I thought, too that it would tell us where we can find his remains.” Would Eurus have told Sherlock if it had been a different situation? If Mycroft hadn't killed her? Or would it have been just another one of her games? They would never know. And they would never bring Sherlock's childhood friend home to his parents. He was lost forever, and Mycroft was facing the fact that they could have possibly saved him if he had been able to find out what this stupid song was about thirty years ago. Giving Eurus the admiration she had obviously craved for. It was too late now. He didn’t want to believe that they perhaps would have been able to save Eurus' sanity, too, which would have spared the lives of her other victims.

But he couldn’t help but think it, and it hurt him very much.

And then Sherlock crossed the distance between them and slung his arms around his waist. “Don't think that, Mycroft. It doesn’t do any good. It is what it is.”

That was true of course. Mycroft embraced his brother, burying his face in Sherlock's hair.

“Let's go back,” he mumbled. They would have dinner with their parents and later they would spend the night together. And Mycroft had decided to call for the helicopter again the next morning to let them return to his house as soon as possible, spending the rest of the day and the night in his bed. It was what they both wanted, and what they both needed. Neither of them had changed their minds about giving this unusual, forbidden relationship a try. And Mycroft was sure that it would work.

It had to. He had failed in dealing with their sister. He would not fail Sherlock because he was the one person in this world he could never lose.

*****

They had still not kissed each other. The task they had taken and failed at had caused them to spend comfort, not to act on their desires. But Sherlock knew that this would change now. Mycroft had allowed himself to relax during dinner, not mentioning to their parents what they had tried. It would have made no sense.

Sherlock was sad that they wouldn’t find the boy he could remember now so well. It was hard to accept how much he had erased him from his life. But it had been thirty years ago. He didn’t miss him now. He didn’t miss anything. He had what he needed – a brother whom he finally showed his feelings, a brother who was about to become much more. Without having spoken about it, it was clear that they couldn’t do much in this night under their parents' roof. But they would spend at least most of it together. Sherlock couldn’t wait to explore his brother's body at least a little bit.

He slipped out of the bathroom, dressed in a robe and nothing else, and listened into the house. Everything was quiet. Their parents had gone to bed half an hour ago. Mycroft had used the downstairs bathroom then, Sherlock the one on the second floor. And now they would meet in Mycroft's bedroom.

He didn’t have to knock. Mycroft opened up, wearing black trousers and a plain black shirt. “Hello,” he whispered and locked the door after Sherlock had slipped into the room.

“How are you?” Sherlock asked him and earned a sweet smile.

“Right now? Very good.”

And then Sherlock was in his arms and they kissed again. It was different this time. Both of them had had time to overthink their feelings and consider the consequences. Sherlock knew neither of his friends would accept a relationship between them. Nobody would. He would in no way risk Mycroft's work position and reputation because he didn’t want to lie to them. He would lie all the time if necessary. There was no way he would dare tell any of them, and there was no way he would not act on his feelings for his brother. He wanted Mycroft and he knew that Mycroft wanted him. This was all that mattered now, and he would do everything to protect whatever was about to happen between them.

His hand was sliding under Mycroft's t-shirt, causing his brother's breath to speed up. Mycroft was apparently not used to being touched any more than Sherlock was. Sherlock had never longed for it, had never fantasised about having sex. But there was no question that he did it now.

“Come, let's get more comfortable,” he whispered, and Mycroft nodded and a few seconds later, he had gotten rid of his shirt and they both had lain down on the bed. Their mouths searched each other again immediately, and Sherlock could feel his arousal grow rapidly.

“You're huge,” he stated when he let his hand slide over the matching bulge in Mycroft's trousers.

“Is that good or bad?”

Sherlock grinned. “I don't have any experience as you might know, but I would definitely say good!”

Mycroft grinned back. “I'm glad to hear that.”

“Show me.”

Mycroft seemed to be a little hesitant, despite his clear arousal.

“Come on. Show me what you have. I know we'll have to wait a little more but I need to get my hand on it.”

The older brother didn’t need any more encouragement. Within seconds he was naked, and Sherlock slipped out of his robe in the meantime. “You're goddamn beautiful, Mycroft.” He let his look take it all in: the slightly hairy chest, the flat stomach, the well-shaped legs, and of course Mycroft's impressive package.

“No diet jokes?”

“Never again,” Sherlock promised, and then his fingers wrapped around Mycroft's heavy dick. Sherlock had never touched another man like this, and he was overwhelmed. He mimicked what he – very rarely – did to himself, and Mycroft's moans told him that he was doing it well.

*****

Mycroft had never felt anything like this. Nothing compared to seeing his brother's amazing long fingers wrapped around his dick, sliding up and down, his eyes full of fascination and longing.

Their sister was dead, their parents, only a few rooms away from them – were old and would in all probability be around only for a few more years. So Sherlock would be his only family, and now he was also the man he loved and desired. He knew he should have felt guilty and ashamed, but all he did feel was love, gratitude and the wish to make this work as well as possible.

“I love what you're doing there,” he said quietly. He had never told his few sex partners any encouraging words. It had only been about getting it over with as quickly and impersonally as possible. But it was all different now. This was Sherlock, his baby brother, the man he loved, and all he wanted was to make him happy.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked with a fine smirk. “I'm glad. But not surprised. My hand is all wet.”

Yes, Mycroft was leaking quite heftily, easing Sherlock's way in beating him off.

“Fuck me, Mycroft,” Sherlock requested to his surprise.

He shook his head. “No, we can't. Not here and not without very thorough preparation.”

“Then just use my crack. Please. I need you closer.”

Mycroft had never denied him anything, and it was a reasonable compromise. He nodded and within half a minute, Mycroft was lying behind his brother and he guided his fully hard cock between Sherlock's plush cheeks. His arse was so beautiful, just like the rest of him. He remembered the day in Buckingham Palace where he had seen his adult brother's naked bottom for the first time. Had he not fancied him then? He couldn’t tell. Probably he had been too absorbed by his duties and Sherlock's impossible – but pretty funny as he had to admit now – behaviour to realise it.

But now that his large dick was sliding between those pillows of seduction, he had to say that he liked it very much.

He was holding Sherlock tight from behind now, and Sherlock was breathing fast. “Touch my dick, brother,” he pleaded quietly, and Mycroft hurried to wrap his fingers around his brother's cock, which was exactly as hard and wet as his own, and almost as big. He sped up the movements of his hips eventually, letting Sherlock fuck his hand, and it didn’t take long until Sherlock bit into the pillow to muffle his cry and showered his hand with sticky wetness. Mycroft needed all of his self-control to not let his throbbing cock enter his brother's body; instead he rubbed it harder against his sweaty skin and then came all over his arse.

After a few seconds of post-(not-quite)-coital bliss, he reached out for the tissues which he had placed on the bed stand, and cleaned them both up. When he had gotten rid of the soiled tissues, he covered Sherlock and himself with the blanket and pulled him close, Sherlock's curls tickling his face.

“Did you like it?” he whispered into his ear.

“Oh, brother. I loved it. And I can't wait for more.”

“Good. Neither can I. I love you, brother mine.” It was all that mattered, wasn't it?

“I love you, Mycroft.” Sherlock turned around in his grip and they kissed.

Mycroft knew that he might have more nightmares of losing him, perhaps dreaming of him killing his sister on this forsaken day that had turned out to be the turning point of both his and Sherlock's life. Without it, they would have probably never realised their feelings for each other. So he would embrace even the worst of dreams because this was what counted – they had found each other and they would make it work, no matter at what costs.

They were Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes, the most intelligent men in England, and they would find a way because they were meant to be together.

The End

  
  



End file.
